


god knows we're worth it

by imaginarykat



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, just some soft thoughts about those two being in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:22:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarykat/pseuds/imaginarykat
Summary: Imagine six thousand years of longing.





	god knows we're worth it

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as [a reply to an ask on tumblr ](https://imaginaryanon.tumblr.com/post/185685708893/do-you-think-crowley-fainted-the-first-time) and then i decided to edit it slightly and upload it here, because i like how it came out, and also nobody was there to stop me. enjoy <3

Imagine six thousand years of longing.

Imagine a lifetime of knowing – _loving_ – someone. Two lifetimes. Three. A hundred of them, and then more. Imagine breaking every rule and law that governs your entire existence and seeking that someone out, time and again throughout the centuries as the world changes and grows around you, because you find yourself inexplicably, ineffably, inevitably drawn to them.

It’s background noise most of the time, a single quiet thought somewhere at the back of Crowley’s head. Some years, he almost forgets about it all; knowing Aziraphale is out there is enough to put his mind at ease. But some years, it’s unbearable, to see both trust and suspicion in Aziraphale’s eyes, perfectly cancelling each other out even though Crowley never once gave him reason to doubt.

The Angel does care about him in some way, that much is clear, but whether it’s simply angelic grace or something different, Crowley cannot say.

He has no point of reference for any of it, not really. He knows demons don’t feel and don’t question like he does, and neither do the angels; both of those were hard lessons to learn. He’s known many angels and demons, but Aziraphale is unlike any of them, somehow, soft, _kind_ , and Crowley can’t help but wonder. Whatever tasks their respective head offices assign them, whatever distractions they find for themselves over the long years, they keep drifting towards one another, familiarity pulling them together.

And so Crowley waits.

He knows Aziraphale so well by now he’s well aware that it’s not just him waiting. They both want something, it’s just that Crowley has no idea what that something might be, or if it’s even the same something. He doesn’t dare put a name to it, even after the Apocalypse is stopped, even after he steps into Heaven wearing Aziraphale’s perfectly polite smile and stands in hellfire among the angels, even after Hell and Heaven let them go free in fearful awe.

Freedom comes to them in that burst of divine disobedience six thousand years in the making, and it’s a new thing for the both of them.

It’s nice, Crowley decides.

They’re getting used to it, careful and slow, but they’re getting there, and it’s nice.

Eventually, one evening, they’ll sit side by side on the softest sofa at the back of Aziraphale’s shop. Not opposite one another, not anymore; after all, they no longer have sides. (Besides, someone’s carefully placed a pile of new, precious books in Aziraphale’s favourite armchair.) Crowley is talking about everything and nothing, gesticulating wildly with the half-full wine glass in his hand.

He talks because he _loves_ talking to Aziraphale, of course, but also because it allows him to keep his thoughts scattered over several topics at once, instead of focusing on just one thing. In a way, distance had been easier than being right here and knowing that he still can’t have what he wants. Whatever that is.

Aziraphale is sitting slightly sideways, his pose mirroring Crowley’s just a little, a fond smile on his lips. Eventually, driven by curiosity he’s never quite dared to indulge in before, he reaches out and places a hesitant hand on the side of Crowley’s neck, because the longing is not just Crowley’s, it’s never been just Crowley’s. Little by little Aziraphale’s been learning freedom too, and wondering where exactly the new boundaries might lie.

Crowley makes a confused, strangled noise at that, something that surely wanted to be a word once, then stops talking.

_‘My apologies’_ is what Aziraphale immediately says, tone almost casual, swallowing down whatever emotion tried to overcome him. He intends to move his hand away, mouth already opening again to make a perfectly reasonable explanation. Crowley nearly chokes on a _‘what for, Angel?’_ and puts his hand over Aziraphale’s.

Their eyes meet, and they stop.

Imagine quietly loving, and quietly being loved back, for six thousand years; so much is unspoken between them that neither even knows where to begin. Imagine dancing on the edge for all this time, never admitting what you wanted because you’re not allowed to, because neither angels nor demons _want_ like this. But over the long, long years Earth and humanity have gently seeped into their souls; they’ve learned friendship and fear and loss, and somewhere along the way they’ve learned love, too.

Imagine finally realising that it’s alright. That you can have this. That you’re _free_.

Aziraphale pulls Crowley into a kiss and it doesn’t break either of them; everything just sort of falls into place.

_Saunters vaguely downwards_ into place, if you will.


End file.
